Fingernails

I stare at Kita, my canine pal.

As she wags her tail watching me

Clip my toenails and fingernails.

She licks her paw and places it on my foot

Impatiently waiting to go for a run.

In a minute, I say, and then ask her,

Why do my fingernails keep growing?

When will they learn to be strong enough?

Heaven and hell both know I give them exercise.

I scratch my itches,

I peel the tape loose from the spool

that has recaptured it.

I peel the skin off the orange colored oranges.

And my nails still break.

I scratch a tiny clump of dirt

Off the side of my shoe.

I scrape a dot of stubborn paint off the mirror.

Certainly all these scratchings,

And peelings, and scrapings,

All should make my fingernails

as strong as metal knives.

But No.

They crack and break down to the quick

sometimes

And that hurts.

What am I suppose to do with the

fingernail clippings when I slice off the ends

to make my nails even,

To make the ends of my fingers nail free enough

to allow me to play the guitar or violin.

Kita places her other paw

On my foot

And slowly shakes her head.

Ok, I really don't play the violin.

But if I did,

I'd have to cut my fingernails

Again and again.

Which I do, anyway.

Yes, I do play the guitar and sing to my dog.

Kita stands and runs to the door.

I can't run on my front paws and back paws

I'm not a coyote, a wolf, or a dog

Who wears down their nails when they run.

Kita wags her tail telling me

To take my fingernails outside,

Feed them to the plants.

And let's go run.

Kita is right,

of course.

Long fingernails

won't help me run.